Everyone's Got a Story
by ThePlotMurderers
Summary: Everyone's had something interesting happen to them, gruesome impending death notwithstanding. 25 oneshots based on the doomed wedding guests and locals, with a particular focus on the 'less important' characters from the show. All are set preshow, and A.U.
1. Danny Brooks

**A/N:** A little preamble is in order, I suppose. Now, I know I'm pretty late to hop onto the 'Harper's Island oneshots' train, but this idea popped into my head one day to do 25 short pieces focusing on the 25 core characters. These all take place before the show, but of course, and I based most of them off pieces of dialogue said by the characters during the show. Granted, many of these require some conjecture and filling-in-blanks, but that's all in the fun of it. A big goal of mine is to give a bit of depth to the more two-dimensional characters on the show (let's face it, there were lots), so feedback is always appreciated.

Without further ado...here we go!

Never the Same

"_You killed Booth for money, man... You killed him for_ **money**!"

Danny Brooks to Malcolm Ross, Episode 7.

There were some things Danny Brooks would never understand, the most irksome of which being why everyone treated him as a sounding board...for everything. What was it about him that made other people see him as so approachable?

Sure, he was a nice guy and everything, but he really wasn't the best at handing out advice. He wasn't some kind of therapist. But people confided in him and, despite how Danny might feel about it, he appreciated his friends thinking of him that way.

And here he was now, confused, and nervous, and apprehensive, and with nothing to say to himself.

The lights were turned down low, and the curtains drawn over the windows, muffling the sound of traffic in the street outside. Somewhere, a cat in heat was yowling, a plaintive, whiny sound.

_A cat in heat,_ he thought, _Hilarious._

Danny sat up on the side of the bed, his bare legs hanging off the too-narrow twin mattress. He was still trying to get control of his breathing, biting his lip so as to savor every second...every terrible, delightful, forbidden second of soreness that was gripping him. He didn't think it would have felt this good...and not just physically.

He felt a hand on his back, a warm, soft, oh-so-welcome hand.

"Danny?" Booth's voice was tentative, tremulous and uncertain. Danny wondered, not for the first time, why Booth always sounded so nervous, so afraid.

"Danny...are you okay?"

He pulled his gaze from Booth's extensive collection of Star Wars action figures on the dresser to regard his friend out the corner of his eye. Lying on his back, only half covered by periwinkle blue sheets, his lanky pale body glistening with sweat like a diamond under a heat lamp.

God, he was beautiful. He was so, so beautiful...and Danny felt terrible. How could he have picked on him all those years, how could he have stood by with Sully and Malcolm and Henry as they made Booth the designated group punching bag?

Sure, it was all in good fun, and Booth never complained... But maybe that just made it worse. That it had just been for fun, and it was all just one big joke.

"I'm good, man..." said Danny, putting his hand over Booth's, gripping it gently, as if he needed more proof that the last two hours weren't just some wild hallucination, "Really."

There were a few moments of continuous silence. The glow-in-the-dark Buffy the Vampire Slayer clock on the wall ticked on its eternal progress. Booth said, "I shouldn't have."

"What?" Danny turned around to face him, and saw Booth slowly turning back to the one they'd always known. The fidgety, self-conscious, self-deprecating, hypochondriac who hated himself more than anyone else ever could, "Booth, what do you..."

"I took advantage." he ran his fingers through his tangled brown hair, still rich and musky with the smell of sex, "You'd just told me, man, you'd just come out to me, and I took advantage of you, and I shouldn't have, Danny, I shouldn't have...it's just all this time we've been friends, and I always thought you were such a great guy, and then you just...you just told me and it was like..." he shook himself furiously, slamming his face into his hands, "I got carried away and I shouldn't have. So I'm sorry."

"Booth..." said Danny firmly, touching his shoulder again, feeling how warm it was, moist and warm and clammy and wonderful, "I'm not sorry, so you shouldn't be either."

"It was your first time, man." said Booth, mournfully, "It's supposed to be nice, your first time, especially when you're...especially when..." he lifted his head and Danny noticed tears swimming in his eyes, which looked so much smaller without his glasses, "Especially when you're like...when you're what _we_ are."

Odd, wasn't it, that Danny had never really thought of this as his 'first time' until just this instant. Certainly it had been his first..._gay_ time, but there'd been other times. 'Girl' times, if you wanted to call them that, and they'd been good times too. Nice girls, most of the time...but he'd never felt the way he had just now tonight. And he knew why now.

"I didn't really have a very good first time," said Booth, talking more to his lap than to Danny, "It was...it was in high school, and there was this guy, and I'd just figured out what...what I was, and he...he was so understanding, and he let me talk to him, and..." he shrugged and two tears escaped his eyes, dropping down to make dark splotches on the sheets, "It doesn't matter. I never saw him again anyway. It's...I didn't want to do to you what he did to me. But I did, because...because, oh _fuck_," the swear sounded so foreign on Booth's tongue, "I don't know... I'm sorry, Danny. I'm really sorry."

Danny felt his stomach knotting up, "Boot..." he shook himself, "Joel,"

It almost killed Danny, how long it took for Booth to recognize his own first name, and look up at him.

"Do you think I would have told you about me if I didn't trust you? I've never told anyone, not since I figured it out for myself...and I told you. And not because you're gay...hell, man, I didn't even _know_ you were."

Which was true enough...Danny didn't think any of the guys had ever even suspected. But it explained so much. Why Booth would always blush beet red and hush up whenever Sully suggested pairing him up with someone, why he never partook when Malcolm hosted those silly 'makeout in the closet' drinking games at frat parties...why Danny would occasionally catch Booth looking at him in classes or at lunch or in the car, and why whenever Danny returned the gaze with a smile of recognition, Booth would blush again and turn away at once.

Dammit...he should have known. Well, he did now, and he was all the better for it.

"I told you because you're my friend. My best friend... And I trust you." he felt the words choking up in his throat, but he'd be damned if he started bawling now.

Booth didn't say anything for a while. The cats outside had ceased calling for mates, and the late night traffic was starting to ebb. The clock kept ticking, though, tick-tick-ticking.

When he did speak, it was with a heavy sniffle, as though his sinuses were completely closed off, "Friends..." he said at last, "Not really, not anymore, I mean..." he blinked again, hard, and hot tears came spilling out again, "It's not gonna be the same anymore, is it? Now that we've...now that we've been together."

Danny considered, "I guess you're right. It isn't ever gonna be the same. And there's nothing wrong with that."

And Danny kissed him, he kissed his friend, his lover, his...his _Booth_ full on the lips. And Booth kissed back, letting out a laugh of relief, probably the most sincere laugh Danny had ever heard him make.

He had no idea if they'd ever be able to do this again... But they were doing it now, tonight, as that silly novelty clock kept ticking, and they were both so much better of for it.

So much better off.

A/N: That was one of the shorter ones, and therefore one of the more difficult to pin down. Danny was a difficult character to find a concept for in the first place, as he was basically just the 'nice guy' of the group. When he hears how Booth died and just freaks out like he did...well, a took it and ran with it.

Please let me know what you think, as always. I'll have the next one up eventually. :)


	2. Maggie Krell

**A/N**: This one was one of the easier ones to do, mostly because the character is pretty much a blank slate. I'm also kind of a fan of Maggie's actress, as loyal readers of the "Queer Events" series will know (to any of those long-suffering fans reading this, Book 6 _will_ be finished...eventually). But, shameless self-promotion aside, I hope you guys enjoy this little snippet as much as I enjoyed writing it, and always feel free to review! (because besides my lovew of self-promotion, I also crave validation). Moving on...

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**"Like Sands Through the Hour Glass"**

* * *

"I thought God loved all creatures."

**-Maggie Krell to Reverend Fain, Episode 2**

* * *

It was raining today...no matter, it rained most days on Harper's Island, and it never once stopped Maggie from her routine. Yes, she was a creature of habit, if nothing else...especially when it came to _this_ particular ritual.

Being the tail end of March, the island was completely bereft of tourists. Her poor Candlewick must be lonely, with no one but her and a scant staff for company, tidying it and making repairs where repairs were needed, so it would look perfectly presentable once the summer arrived.

Delicate tendrils of smoke curled up from the basket in the passenger seat of Maggie's old Buick. Absentmindedly, Maggie patted the checkered cloth covering the basket in place, and savored the rich aroma of its contents.

She didn't really need to pay much mind to the road. She knew the way so well by now, and the roads on the island were almost always empty of other commuters.

The church appeared on the corner, just down a little sideroad, in a tiny nook all to its own. It was quite a bit of a drive from anywhere else in the island, especially the Candlewick, which was far on the north side, but Maggie didn't mind.

Pulling her faded rain slicker closer around herself, Maggie stepped carefully out of her car, made sure she was parked neatly and, with practiced dexterity, opened her bright red umbrella with one hand and took the basket in her other.

Reverend Fain was sitting on the patio of the rectory, a tiny whitewashed house that adjoined the (slightly larger, but also whitewashed) church. When he saw Maggie making her way across the parking lot, he beamed brightly and waved.

"Foolish of me to think the rain would stop you!" he said, picking his own umbrella up from the chair next to him and crossing over to meet her.

"Didn't stop Noah, did it?" Maggie beamed at him. At some point in their long history of meeting every week, it had become custom for Maggie to make some kind of Biblical or religious jape or pun. She didn't think they were always very funny, or effective, but the goodly Reverend always chuckled.

Reverend Fain eyed the basket, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "I don't suppose those are for me?"

"Who else? Fresh from the Candlewick kitchens, as ever." she whispered conspiratorially to him, though of course there was no one to overhear them, "I tossed in some danish too, just on a whim."

"You're a saint, Maggie, don't let anyone tell you different." she handed him the basket, "I'll just bring this inside. Will you be alright out in this rain?"

Maggie smiled at him as if he should already know the answer, and the Reverend nodded, "God bless,"

It was quiet again, with him gone. The soothing, tranquil quiet of Harper's Island in the rain. Maggie turned toward the church, took a deep breath, and walked right past it to the fenced-in enclosure behind it.

The gravestone looked just as it had last week, maybe with a few more leaves scattered on the worn stone...dropped on account of the rain, no doubt.

"Happy birthday, Robert." she said softly, looking nowhere but at the name etched clearly into the tomb, as eternal as if it had been there forever.

_Robert Krell (1943-1968)_

"Forty years, and it still feels the same," she told him, her finger tracing lines in the grooves of the letters, "But don't worry. I've been doing alright." She sighed deeply. It was so much easier on the _other_ weeks, the _other_ Saturdays, the ones that weren't Christmas or Easter or their anniversary or her birthday or his...

Forty years.

"I have to admit it to you, I was kind of afraid of setting out to see you today." she tried to keep her voice clear and composed; she knew how foolish she might look if anyone happened upon her out here, but she also knew that people rarely did... And all these years later, she still knew that Robert could hear her, wherever he was.

"I knew it would feel different...why, I remember where I was ten years ago, and I came here. That was the day I brought all those extra flowers, and they took root and there was honeysuckle all over the place!" she laughed lightly, remembering how Reverend Fain had tittered, putting on his garden gloves to start weeding out the infestation.

"You'll think this foolish of me, to mention it right now of all times, but I thought you might get a kick out of it." she smiled sheepishly at him, "Our show is forty now, too."

It wasn't really 'their' show, but it was at the same time...in those few short months when she'd been able to write to him with any hope that he would respond, before he'd been deployed on a suicide mission, before the Army sent her his dog tag in the mail.

Yes, in that short time _Days of Our Lives_ was all they could write about without treading on the topic of uncertainty that was Vietnam. Maggie had always loved soap operas, back to the days when she had sat at her mother's feet, listening to _Guiding Light_ on the radio.

_Days _had only been on a few months when Robert was sent off to fight. He would encourage her to write about it, and she would talk about it...and he would respond, interested. And they did their best to ignore the real world, to escape into the world of Salem, Massachusetts, and the little dramas and affairs of the Hortons and the Bradys and the Donovans... Only years later would she realize how hard it must have been to feign that levity, that indifference, for her sake.

And to this day she still talked to him about it...and he still listened; there was nothing else he could do.

"But I'm not just going to come here and tell you sad stories." Maggie forced herself from her rumination, "I've had the best news, Robert, oh the best news in the world!" Though it hurt her knees terribly (they tended toward soreness in wet weather), Maggie bent down so as to face Robert's name directly, "There's going to be a wedding at the Candlewick! Yes, two young people who fell in love on the island when they were kids, they're going to have a big fancy wedding up at our place, with all the trimmings." she blinked, embarrassed, at the sudden tears that came to her eyes, "And, would you believe it, they asked me to be the wedding planner! I won't lie, Robert, it was difficult to say yes but...but I did. Of course, I did. And let me tell you something, I'm going to do everything for that wedding with us in mind... I mean, not to sound selfish...I know it's not _my_ wedding. But still. It's what we wanted to do, wasn't it? Back in the day?"

Memories...so long ago, when they had first been in love, when they'd first started talking about marriage. They knew there wouldn't be anything fancy...no buffets, or bands, or huge guest lists... But they were young and full of dreams, and they would look up at the decaying Candlewick Inn, abandoned for years and years and gone to seed, and they would imagine standing on that great green lawn, in the shadow of that majestic building restored to glory, saying their vows in front of the whole island.

But they were pipe dreams, and their wedding had been small. Rushed actually, since Robert was so quickly sent overseas.

"When Trish and Henry get married," she whispered to the name, "I'll be thinking of you. Happy birthday, Robert."

When at last she decided it was time to go, it was reluctantly. Maggie held her umbrella high overhead, and walked back toward her rusty old Biuck, and chose not to dwell on the disappointments of the past, but on the promises of the future. For her sake, as much as Robert's.

* * *

**A/N:** Hoped you all enjoyed that. I kind of have a soft spot for Maggie, considering most of the fandom kind of just glosses over her or just paints her as an extra. The idea for the quote actually changed a few times, between the remark to Fain or her initial chat with Trish and Henry in the first episode ("Just the best week ever, etc. etc."), which would have reflected on her doing the wedding with her and Robert in mind, but I scrapped it because it was too vague.

Next character will come up shortly, within the week more than likely. Until then, toodles!


	3. Lucy Daramour

**A/N:** This update would have been earlier, but I've been ridiculously swamped by exams. However, with the semester almost at its end, I now have ample time to keep working on these little snippets for your reading pleasure! I think I'm in the minority when I say I actually kind of like Lucy as a character. She doesn't really appear much in fanfic, and when she does she's usually kind of a joke or a ditsy blond. However, I have an inane fascination with seeing complexities in side-characters with limited screentime, as you've probably already noticed. I hope you enjoy it and, as always, reviews are always welcome!

* * *

**"Good Guys and Not-so-Good Guys"**

* * *

"I was there in college too, and I date my fair share of creeps... Hunter Jennings is a bad guy, but we have good guys now!"

-**Lucy to Trish, Episode 2**

* * *

There was a dog living under the dumpster, behind her apartment building. Every day, Lucy would get up and go to her car and she would see a little tuft of white fur, stained muddy brown with the filth of the street.

The first few times this happened she didn't really know what she was seeing. She had eccentric neighbors, of course, this was an upscale neighborhood, after all. Probably some yuppie art student's abstract sculpture gone wrong.

But when winter came, and she noticed the tuft trembling, and whimpering in the drifts of hard, Seattle snow, Lucy finally let her gaze linger on it for a few minutes and she saw that it was alive.

She didn't know too much about dogs but she could tell this one was scrawnier than it should be, and needed food; a bath wouldn't hurt either.

So she brought it back into her apartment, away from the cold, and gave it a dish of gourmet salad from some local organic supermarket. The little creature sniffed it, poked it with its nose, and then turned its eyes to her, big wet eyes, and Lucy laughed to herself.

"Ooh, you're _picky_!" she stood up and went over to the fridge, "Fine with me, we're both ladies of wealth and taste." She would check later, and see that the dog was, in fact, a lady, as she'd suspected.

Lucy wasn't quite sure how much time she spent preparing a lunch of grilled chicken and potatoes for the dog (thank God for Google), and she didn't even realize the passage of time until Greg came home.

"Hey, babe," she heard him say, as he always said, "You're home early..."

"Oh, well, I never left..." she began to say, but by now Greg was in the kitchen with her, looking at the dog eating from the bowl as though it was some flesh-eating monster from outer space.

"Is that a dog?" he had a perfectly chiseled square jaw, like a Greek statue, and when he frowned...as he was now...it was something to behold.

"Yeah, it's a dog." she smiled, "She was out in the snow, and she looked sick..."

"You know I'm allergic to dogs."

She didn't, or at least she didn't remember him ever saying it. "Oh. I'm sorry. I...I must have forgot." She looked at the dog who, apparently sensing something was amiss, stopped eating at once, and was now regarding them both with those big, wet eyes.

"You're not keeping it, are you." It wasn't a question. Lucy smiled at him, "Of course not, silly, you'll get sick." she looked at the dog, "But what will happen to..."

"I'll call the shelter tomorrow."

And he must have, as the dog was nowhere to be found the next day.

There was another time, maybe a month later, when a letter came in the mail, later than she expected. Lucy's heart was in her mouth and she'd simply jumped onto the bright purple futon in her living room, staring at the envelope, too anxious to open it.

But she did open it, and after reading barely two sentences of the letter enclosed, she completely forgot herself and let out a whoop for joy, leaping off the futon, hugging the letter to her breast as though it were the most valuable thing in the world.

Thoughts ran through her mind faster than she could process them; _Who should I tell first? Trish, Beth, Dad, Mom, Greg...yes, Greg, I'll tell Greg!_

Her hand was shaking so much that she had to redial his number twice, she kept making mistakes.

"Lucy?" he sounded surprised, "Lucy, what is it?"

"You won't believe it, Greg...I just got into Harvard Law!"

She had to sit down, and fast, or she might just faint with anticipation.

"Law school? When did you apply for law school?"

"Don't you remember? I mailed my application at Thanksgiving. You were there." she added the last part almost desperately, her smile slipping away as though it had never been.

"You're not going to law school." not a question, not a remark...a command. Like she was no better than that little dog he'd turned out of the house, "I don't have that kind of money."

"But Greg, I'll be paying for school!" she didn't think she'd ever raised her voice like this before, certainly not to him. She hated getting angry, hated having to yell at people, "It's my decisi..."

But he'd already hung up, she wasn't sure at which point.

She called Beth a little later, not sure who else to turn too. Of all Lucy's friends, Beth was the best listener, and the least likely to judge.

When Lucy had finished relating the story, doing her best to keep all the indignation in her voice, but none of the sadness or betrayal, Beth said, "Luce...don't be upset with me but...has this guy ever let you do _anything_?"

"Of course, Beth, that's ridiculous..." but Lucy trailed off, and she remembered the other times. When he kept her from visiting Trish in Martha's Vineyard because he hated traveling, when he told her not to get that job at the trendy teahouse because he wanted to provide for her, when he turned out that dog, that poor, poor, wet little dog...

"Oh my God. Oh my God, Beth, I feel so _stupid_!" And now she cried, she couldn't stop, and she didn't try to.

"Lucy, you shouldn't be there alone. I'll pick you up, we'll go to my place..."

"Beth, no, Beth, you can't come here, if Greg sees..." she suddenly felt a dread in her chest, a terrible, twisting pain in her gut, and she hated herself for realizing it now, realizing so late, "He won't let me leave. He'll never let me leave."

"I'm going to my car right now, Lucy, and God help me, if I have to run red lights, I will. I'll meet you outside."

And Lucy did. She did, after telling herself over and over again that she shouldn't, that Greg could come back at any time and if he did... Well, she didn't know what he would do. She didn't know anything about him, really, did she? And he knew nothing about her...which was just the way he wanted it, as was now perfectly clear.

She and Beth didn't talk much on the car ride over to her place... Lucy wanted to thank her, but she knew Beth didn't really like sentimentality, and the silence felt better anyway. But Lucy did look her friend right in the face, and smiled at her, wiping away tears that had finally been allowed to come out. Beth smiled back, and tossed her a Kleenex from her gym bag, which she carried around as reverently as Lucy carried her Prada shoulder bag.

When they were about three blocks from the studio apartment that Beth called home, Lucy let out a cry so sharp Beth almost crashed into a mailbox.

"What is it?" she asked breathlessly. Lucy could only reply, "Pull over, pull over, pull over!" Beth did, looking both confused and frightened.

Lucy ran right out of the car and practically sprinted past three storefronts until she reached the man with the cardboard box. The man was tall and skinny, wearing a threadbare winter coat and ratty jeans. But Lucy could only see the little white head poking over the rim of the box, which the man almost dropped, Lucy came up to him so suddenly.

"Oh my God, it is, it is!" she couldn't believe it...and it was made even more real when the dog barked at her, a sharp yappy little bark of recognition, and made as though to jump right out of the box, but couldn't on its stubby legs.

"Is this...is this your dog?" asked the man curiously, still in a state of shock, most likely.

"Yes..." Lucy said without a moment's hesitation, "Yes, she is!" she looked uncertainly at the man, "Where did you find her?"

"In that alley," he nodded vaguely a few blocks down, "She looked like she was freezing to death. I had to run back home to get a shoe box..." he smiled sheepishly, "I'm sort of a softie for animals."

_Greg didn't even call the shelter,_ she thought ruefully, _But why did I ever think he would have?_

"I'm Ryan." he said, handing the dog over to her.

"Lucy." she looked from the adoring eyes of the dog to the man who'd saved it, "I have to go...my friend's waiting with the car." she turned to go, but stopped herself, "Maybe I'll see you again? For coffee, maybe? I just have to repay you..."

And Ryan grinned, "I'd like that."

She beamed at him, "Then it's a date."

* * *

**A/N: **Rereading this, it seems kind of like I condensed all of Lucy's character qualities into one event. Gigi, her friendship with Beth, meeting Ryan, going to law school... Eh, I think it works, though I feel the end is sort of abrupt. I just didn't want any of the shorts to be too lengthy.

If you liked it, do let me know...if you didn't, you can let me know that too. I'll try and get Oneshot #4 up within the week.


	4. Kelly Seaver

**A/N:** I can't tell you guys how much fun it was to right this one. I initially was absolutely terrified I'd bungle this up, since it's pretty different from what I usually do, but personally I kind of enjoyed writing it, as morbid as that sounds. Then again, this is the kind of story that could go either way so I'll let you decide.

* * *

****"Waking Dreams"****

* * *

**Kelly: **I see him...John Wakefield. Except not in my dreams. Awake. For real. Like he's back.

**Abby: **My dad _killed _John Wakefield.

**Kelly: **Then why do I keep seeing him?

**-Episode 2**

* * *

She locked herself in her room the instant the funeral was over. It would be easier that way, that's what she told herself, easier to slip away from the crowds of people clustered in the cemetery, saying their respects and muttering teary condolences to each other.

Kelly couldn't bring herself to be around so much emotion...no, she had enough of those churning up in her gut right now: anger, sorrow, grief, guilt...yes, guilt, guilt most of all. But she wouldn't tell anyone why...she couldn't, because than they'd look at her funny and they'd talk, and they were already talking enough.

"_Poor fragile little thing_,", "_Always so quiet, it's not healthy!_", "_Someone ought to do something about it._"

But no one did, and Kelly wouldn't let them if they tried. She had her grief now, and it was all she had...so why let a bunch of well-meaning yet misguided strangers take that from her?

And she couldn't talk to anyone, no, she just couldn't. She was afraid to say anything, they'd all think she was nuts. After all, the news had come out only a few days ago...he'd been found, dead, washed up out of the sea. Sheriff Mills shot him, Abby's dad, Abby's dad who'd just lost his wife, so why shouldn't he kill the bastard and save them all the trouble?

But Kelly knew the truth...yes, the vile, unspeakable, unbelievable truth, so unbelievable that she didn't even know if she believed it, and she didn't know whether or not she wanted it to be true.

The first time was the very day after everything happened. She was staying over at Shane's house, and her eyes were red from crying, and she looked up from the pillow she'd been buried in for hours and she'd seen it, she'd seen_ him_ just standing there at the window, not moving, not blinking, just standing and staring... She'd screamed then, that first time, and Shane had come in, uncharacteristically quiet and not knowing what the hell to do.

She didn't tell him what she'd seen of course, and if Shane had seen it he didn't tell her.

The next time was at the tree, when she'd sneaked away from Shane's 'alpha male' field of protection and gone to see them take the bodies from the tree. She needed to see, a part of her just needed to see, to know that it was real, that it all wasn't just some wild fever dream.

There were policemen and medics and reporters all around the creepy old thing, going about the business of cutting corpses down with a solemn reverence and a just as solemn haste to get the whole thing over with. Kelly was lurking behind a stand of stones near the tree, just to see her mother one last time when she'd seen _him_ as well, standing just beyond the rest of them.

And none of them saw anything, but Kelly saw him, and he saw her too...he had eyes only for her, and she knew he must be real, she knew it, she knew it more than she'd ever known anything in all her life.

And now today...today as Reverend Fain read aloud from the Letter of Saint Paul to Whoeverthehell, while the whole damn island was gathered on the Candlewick lawn, lighting candles and making meaningless speeches, she'd seen him, standing at the treeline, where the woods began, lit dimly by the light of the candles.

And he was looking at her again...and suddenly she could take it no longer. None of them saw anything.._.none_ of them! Could they all be so blinded by their stupid, fake grief? There he was, just staring at her, smirking like the cat who ate the motherfucking canary, nonverbally telling them all that he wasn't done. That he was coming back...coming back to finish what he'd started, whatever the hell that was.

So she'd hurried away, slunk off into the growing darkness just as they were all processing to the cemetery. All the way back to her big, empty house in the middle of the woods. The house that had smelled of cookies baking, and lilac sprigs, and fresh-cleaned sheets just a week ago, but now smelled like nothing but dust.

Panting with exhaustion, Kelly sank to her knees at her bedside, her ribs aching in protest and her lungs sore with exertion. It felt so good...just to feel something, anything, but grief was so damn good. But she didn't have much time, she knew. She couldn't sit here forever...eventually she would be found. She would be found and forced to continue on...on and on with the rest of her life.

She was only sixteen, and yet she felt centuries old. How stupid, how silly, how _melodramatic_. And yet she knew how she felt. Maybe she knew what to do about it, too. Maybe...

An evening wind whistled through the tall trees outside her window. The branches rubbing together sounded like whispering, like moaning... _God, I'm hearing _voices_ now?_ Kelly could have kicked herself...but she_ was_ hearing voices, so why bother denying it?

There was a silver letter opener on her desk. The skinny decorative kind that you were never really expected to use anymore... It was emblazoned with an ornate caligrographed S, for Seaver...her mother had given it to her when she started high school, a rare little extravagance for a single mother to give her only child.

Kelly had never used it, not once. Fitting then, that she should use it now...in her mother's memory.

She didn't even feel the cut through her skin. But she saw it, oh God she saw it, and it terrified and thrilled her all at once. The spray of blood, gushing out of the vertical line she'd made in her forearm, a bright, vulgar crimson against her white skin. She felt faint at once, and suddenly she was slumped against the bed, and just as suddenly she had no idea where the fuck she was.

Oh but she knew...she knew what she was doing. She knew...it was what needed to be done, yes, it needed to be done.

"Kelly!" a harsh voice, a banging on the door...was he here already? Too late for him then. 'You snooze, you lose,' wasn't that what they said?

"Kelly, are you in there? Dammit, Kelly, open the door!"

He was banging on the door now, she heard muffled swears, something heavy being flung against the solid wood. She felt blood oozing down her arm, onto her chest and the cheap black dress she'd just buried her mother in. It was wet and slimy, and for some reason it was warm, which was the most unexpected thing. Yet it was so welcome, that warmth...especially as the room around her began to become blurry, began to fade away like an the end to an old movie, grainy and suffused with static, but fading away, most definitely.

A loud bang, a crash, the door must have given at last. "Shit!" a heavy voice, a gruff voice, "Oh shit, Kelly, Jesus Christ..."

She wanted to laugh at him (_"You snooze, you lose!_"), laugh right in his face, but soon enough she felt his hands on her shoulders, firm, coarsened hands gripping her with a brutal force...of course, it must have taken a hell of a lot of force to get her mother and Mrs. Mills and Mr. Cullen up into that tree.

"Kelly, Kelly, come on, Kel, stay with me... Kelly, dammit, it's me, it's _Shane_!"

Shane... Kelly tried to focus her gaze, as much as she could, and she didn't see Shane at all. A liar too, as well as a killer! Of course he was... But if it wasn't Shane, and it really was him, that meant he hadn't been late after all. He still had time, time to snuff her out, to finish everything before she finished it herself.

So there really was no more point fighting it. He was here now, and he had time... She knew it, of course, he'd tried telling her so often, with his cold smiles and his unblinking eyes. This whole thing could only end one way and that way was this.

"Dammit, Kelly, keep your eyes open, help's coming, okay, I promise."

God, he was slow about things! She could barely see anything at all at this point, and here he was still taunting her about it! What a sicko...what a sick, twisted, old bastard... Why not just finish it now? Why waste precious time playing with his food?

More footsteps, more shouting... What, was he calling the cavalry, now? This was taking much too long, much longer than she thought it would... She heard snatches of sentences, of commands, someone shouting for an ambulance, someone sobbing...was that old Maggie Krell whispering a Hail Mary? Ironic...maybe she was dead too now, strung up from a tree like all the other well-meaning older women.

"Kelly, Kelly, come on, we're gonna take you down to the clinic, alright?" a new voice...well, not a new voice...a familiar one, a gentle hand on the back of her head, holding her steady while stronger arms lifted her up onto some kind of stretcher or something, "Come on, Kelly, look at me, come on, keep your eyes open, girl, okay?" Poor thing, whoever it was, they sounded very said, "Come on, Kelly, it's me, it's _Nikki_...please, stay with me, Kel, please..."

Nikki...of course, it was Nikki. How could she have forgotten Nikki? Yes, she could sort of see a flash of yellow which must be her hair.

"Oh thank God, she opened her eyes!" Nikki made some distressing choking sound that could have been a laugh or a sob, "She opened her eyes!"

What was the big deal? Kelly didn't get it, didn't they understand? Maybe Nikki would...maybe she should have told Nikki, if no one else. Maybe she should try now, while there was time.

"He has too... he has too..." it was difficult to speak, she felt so sluggish and sleepy and she wasn't even sure anyone could understand what she was saying.

"Shh, shh, Kelly, don't talk, okay? It's gonna be alright..."

"He has to come back..." Kelly begged, looking where she assumed Nikki was, "He has to come back for me... _Wakefield has to come back for me._"

* * *

**A/N: **Again, very different from what I usually write, so my apologies if it's a bit confusing or angsty or melodramatic or whatever. As always, all reviews are welcome and appreciated. The next update probably won't come about until after Christmas but before the New Year, though that can always change. Until then...


	5. Katherine Wellington

**A/N: **Surprisingly, I've actually been able to find time to upload this week! I sometimes think I vastly overrate how busy I am, but that's besides the point. I had fun writing this one, and I hope it does justice...Katherine is one of my favorites. Reviews are always welcome, of course, but I'll stop pandering and get to the point.

* * *

**"Labels"**

* * *

**Shane: **So you're, like, one of the bridesmaids?

**Katherine:** I'm Trish and Shea's stepmom.

**Shane: **Oh. So you're like a trophy wife?

**Katherine: **...I guess I am.

**-Episode 9**

* * *

It seemed to her that the cuffs became easier to take off with each time. The pink grooves the skinny slivers of metal left in her wrists could easily be hidden by the bangles, bracelets, and designer watches Thomas gave her.

Richard was already out of bed, pulling on his trousers and buttoning up his shirt...as though he planned on going right from here to the office.

"What's the hurry?" Katherine asked, trying to sound like she couldn't care less, "We're alone for once, if there was ever a time to stick around for a drink, it's now."

This weekend was the first of its kind, and one like it probably wouldn't come again. Thomas was in Ontario on business, and Shea was at the Hamptons house with Madison and Trish, planning the upcoming wedding. She and Richard were all alone in the Wellington estate, the message behind_ that_ all too clear.

Richard turned around to look at her, and she saw his expression change for a moment. The stony nonchalance he'd been trying so hard to affect was replaced with something like anger, like disappointment, like_ revulsion_.

"Come on," Katherine urged, crossing over to the liquor cabinet in the corner, "I'll make you a scotch and soda. It's your favorite right?" Yes, his favorite, but he could never partake because Shea wouldn't let him drink when Madison was in the house, so he never got so much as a sip.

"Richard..." she started as she mixed the drinks, so practiced at it by now that she didn't even have to pay attention, "...Richard, what is it? Is...is something wrong?" She hated having to ask that. It made her feel like some giddy debutante on her wedding night, demurely asking if she'd failed to pleasure her lord husband.

"You're always so_ calm_ about it." he said, not looking at her, "It never bothers you at all."

"What never bothers me?" Though she had a feeling she already knew.

"What they say. What they say about you... and not just Shea and Trish but, you know, _media_."

She handed him a scotch and sipped heartily from her own. Media...that was a lark. Richard chose the strangest times to suddenly get prudish. She'd seen the gossip rags at the supermarket, online, hell the maid carried a copy around the house with a flagrant disregard for who might see it. A glossy periodical, the whole cover just one zoomed up image of Katherine's own face (not a very flattering picture, either), and a headline in big, obnoxious yellow letters: 'WELLINGTON'S TROPHY WIFE; WHAT SHE DOESN'T WANT HER SUGAR DADDY TO KNOW!'

Tom had been such a saint about it, though, always acting like it didn't bother him. He never read that trash anyway, called it 'sensationalist garbage'. She loved him for that, in whatever small way she could.

"Why should it bother me?" Katherine shrugged, sitting on the bed and gesturing to Richard to sit beside her, "It's not like they're lying. I _am_ a trophy wife. There was never any doubt about that."

"And Thomas is your 'sugar daddy'?" Richard smirked, sitting near her, "I can't see him liking that...I'm surprised he didn't sue them for all they had."

"He isn't my sugar daddy, though. Believe me, I know what a sugar daddy is." She looked at Richard and he flinched, maybe instinctively. There weren't many people who knew about Katherine's _real_ secrets...what she really didn't want Thomas (or anyone else, for that matter) to know.

"But why did you ask?" she asked Richard now, "Does it bother you?"

Richard was quiet for an unnaturally long time. He sighed deeply, "It should, shouldn't it?"

Katherine shrugged, "Only if you want it to."

He took a heavy swig of scotch and his eyes rolled up slightly into his head...that odd kind of euphoric trance he seemed to go into whenever they were together and only when they were together. Lots of men had that sort of look, Katherine knew. Rich, bored men who couldn't score with their wives if they were frigging Don Juan. She couldn't say it excited her when Richard did that...she was too used to the ritual of sex to be so easily thrilled at this point, but it did make her feel happy...to know that she was making him happy.

So maybe, in a way, she _was_ just some breathless debutante. A breathless debutante who liked shackles and whips, but that was another matter entirely.

Richard seemed to have forgotten his question. Instead, he looked at her, extended his free hand as though to pat her knee, but then quickly withdrew it, as though he were some naughty little kid caught stealing a dirty magazine from his father's stash.

"So if you're a trophy wife..." he paused, as if afraid to continue, but Katherine smiled at him, and he pressed on, "...and Thomas isn't your sugar daddy, then what does that make me?" he didn't give her a chance to answer, "A cheat. A cheating bastard, that's it, right?"

Katherine took the glass from his hand, went to the cabinet, and poured them each more drinks.

"That's a stupid expression. 'Cheating'. Makes it sound like we're all playing some board game or something. No, Richard, you're not cheating on anything."

"There's no reason for you to make me feel bett..."

"I'm not trying to make you feel better. I've seen how you look at Shea, and I've seen how you play with your daughter, and I've also heard what Tom says about you, and I know how he treats you. So dammit, Richard, if anyone's breaking the goddamn rules it is most definitely not you. "

Katherine was surprised at how passionate she sounded. Usually when she and Richard were together they didn't speak at all...they just did what they did and maybe they had a few drinks afterward, and occasionally they would take turns showering so they wouldn't attract suspicion from Tom or Shea or anyone else who might have caught them. They never had _conversations_. Though maybe, in a way, what they did_ was_ a conversation, a more complete one than anything they could hope to have with their respective spouses.

Richard looked at her then, and he did touch her knee, nodding slowly at her as if he couldn't verbalize what he wanted to say.

"So what _do_ you call yourself?" he asked her, not unkindly.

"What, are we playing some kind of game now? Fine by me." she poured some more into their glasses, "I'm Tom's wife, I'm your stepmother-in-law," she grinned at the way Richard grimaced at that, as if it was something he'd rather forget, "I'm Trish and Shea's stepmother, but neither of them call it that. Shea just calls me 'Katherine', and I've heard Trish call me the 'whore' once or twice when she didn't think I was looking."

"A whore?" Richard raised his eyebrows, "Why would she call you a whore?" he gave a start, "Do you think she..."

Katherine chuckled, "No, she doesn't know a thing. And even if she did, she'd be wrong. I'm not a whore. You're not paying me." she drank, "You're turn."

Richard cocked an eyebrow, "We're actually playing a game?"

"You asked first, and it's not like there's anything else to do in this place. So come on...what are you, and you can't say a cheater because I already said you weren't."

He sighed, "If you insist... I'm Shea's husband, and Madison's father, and I work for Thomas."

"Go on."

"What the hell do you mean, 'go on'? What else am I supposed to..."

"I said that Trish calls me a whore but that she's wrong. Now you have to do the same, but with yourself."

"Are you making up the rules as we go along, or something? Jesus..."

"Do you want a drink or not? If you can't say anything, I'll just drink for the hell of it."

So Richard relented, slowly, as if he wasn't sure if he was saying the right thing, "Thomas hates me. He never wanted me to marry Shea and he doesn't think I can provide for our family. He wants Shea to leave me, but he doesn't push her because he knows she'll refuse. He wants to fire me but he won't because it would hurt Shea. The only reason I'm able to do _anything_ is Shea." He didn't look at Katherine, not once after he started speaking. She could understand that, and for the barest of seconds, she felt bad.

"You can drink now, you know." she said softly, so he did. She wasn't sure what to do next, but she knew that they couldn't just keep sitting her in this awful silence. At the same time, she didn't want to separate now, to go back to sitting around and waiting, waiting for Thomas to come home.

"What is Tom?" she asked suddenly. Richard blinked as though woken from a deep reverie. Looking into the swirling golden brown scotch in his glass, he said, "An ego-maniac." he drank, "What is Shea?"

"Away." Katherine drank, getting just a bit tipsy now, "Trish?"

"Suspicious." he may have wanted to say more, but he moved on, "...Madison?"

"Lucky." she said without pause, "_Very_ lucky."

Sighing softly, she put her glass down on the dresser and announced, "I'm out. You win."

But neither of them stood up; and they remained there, sitting on the bed, for the rest of the night.

* * *

**A/N: **Hoped you liked it...and I hope it wasn't confusing. I don't know why, but part of the dialogue between Richard and Katherine seems a bit disjointed, but that might be just me, and I was too stubborn to heed my own advice and change it anyway. The next update will very likely not happen until after Christmas, but probably before the New Year. Until then...


	6. Hunter Jennings

**"Ships That Pass in the Night"**

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**A/N:** So...I'm not dead! I think it's been just short of a year since I updated this, though so...yeah, I guess that's not exactly cool, but I'll have to do the cliche thing of insisting that life got in the way, which it totally did, promise. But, because I couldn't quit the world of Harper's Island for too long (I never can), I decided to get back to work on these one shots, beginning with none other than Hunter Jennings, a character most people seem to either despise or forget ever existed. Hopefully, I did him some measure of justice here, but of course that's for _you_ to decide.

* * *

**Trish: **Hunter, you had your chance! Three years ago, I was yours. Now I want you to leave.

**Hunter: **What if I don't want to?

* * *

He was to be in the Riviera for three days, while the family yacht was being redesigned (in a more 'hip' Art Deco fashion, to be precise) in Monte Carlo. In the meantime, Hunter lodged in a six room flat overlooking the sea and spent his days cruising up and down the shoreline in a bright red rented Maserati, feeling the cool, salty wind off the Mediterranean blowing through his hair.

He had friends on the Riviera, old associates from Harvard. Like him, all the descendants of legacy families whose influence ran deep in the university system. He spent his days doing what young men of his estate did, sitting with these friends outside cafes and in beachside plazas, drinking cold beers and smoking cigars, chatting about stocks and shares and vacations in Calais, Rome, London, and Berlin.

At nighttime, the local shop keepers would turn on ropes of little Christmas lights strung up over the plaza, suffusing the whole area with a warm and earthy glow. Crickets chirped in the distance, and gulls called on the beach, the lights of distant fishing boats and pleasure barges blinked out to sea.

These were lazy evenings, evenings when Hunter would order an iced coffee and only sip from it once or twice, just staring out into space, or at his wristwatch. He loved that watch: a heavy silver Rolex, eager to tell him the second, minute, hour, day of the week, day of the month, and the year...ticking on a triumphal progress that testified to how far he'd come already in life, and how much time there was left to continue coming far.

A flash of blonde hair walking across the plaza, that was the first thing he saw, and it wrenched him out of his stupor, away from the ramblings of the man at the table with him (he'd known him since high school, but he'd be damned if he could remember his name). It was brilliant blonde hair, worn loose around a set of neat, compact shoulders. She wore a light blue sundress that fit her like a glove, she carried a white long-strapped purse over her shoulder, genuine leather... She looked vaguely familiar...yes, he could have sworn he knew her from somewhere.

He left his friends at the table without much thought, and met her where the street met the sand.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice clear and direct enough that there could be no mistake who he was talking too. It worked like a dream; she turned around, blinking with surprise as though she'd also been lost to the world. Her name came to Hunter the moment he saw her face, "Chloe, isn't it? I think we know each other."

She looked him up and down...she was quite tall for a woman, which irked Hunter only slightly. Usually he only hung about with women who were a head shorter than him...call it male pride, but he preferred talking down to people anyway.

"You're..." she sounded as though she didn't want to linger here and talk, but she made no motion to leave, "...You're Trish's ex."

Hunter smiled and laughed deeply, "'Trish's ex', eh? Well, that's not usually what I answer to, but I'll make an exception for old friends. What brings you to France?"

Chloe's eyes narrowed and her hand clutched her purse strap tighter, but she didn't move a step, "I'm visiting family." she said at last, "And we were never friends."

"We were never _not_ friends, either." Hunter looked back the way she'd come, curiously, "I couldn't help noticing you were walking down the shore road. You don't have a car?"

"Well, no, but..."

"I'll give you a lift, if you'll accept it. It's a long walk to the main town, and at night..."

"I can take care of myself."

Why did all women feel compelled to say that? It got to be _very _tiresome and it had become very easy for Hunter to figure out which women meant it and which ones didn't.

It wasn't hard to figure out which one Chloe was. One look at the long dirt road alongside the beach and she hopped into the Maserati with him.

"Where are you staying?" he asked, raising his voice slightly so as to be heard over the rush of wind as they drove.

"The Hilton!" she said, "And do you have to keep the roof down? It's freezing!"

Hunter grinned at her, but didn't raise the roof, "I thought you were staying with family."

He'd caught her. Chloe instantly became intensely interested in her handbag clasp. Hunter shrugged, "You don't have to be embarrassed... After all, it's like you said: I'm Trish ex, so why should you trust me?"

Chloe didn't say anything. Hunter continued, negotiating a few tricky turns in the road with daring untimeliness, "Did Trish ever tell you why we ended things?"

"Yeah, of course." she eyed him suspiciously, "What, are you gonna say she was lying?"

"I can't say she was lying, I don't know what she said. I'm just saying, 'there are two sides to every story'. A famous writer once said that."

Chloe rolled her eyes, "I once got a fortune cookie that said that."

"The Chinese were very wise people, wouldn't you say?"

She smiled, but quickly repressed it. It didn't matter...Hunter had made her smile, and that made all the difference.

"So why are you really here by yourself in this most romantic of places?" Maybe that was laying it on a little thick...too theatrical, perhaps, but Chloe answered, all the same.

"I wasn't lying to you before, I _am_ visiting family. Just not here."

"Oh?"

She sighed, "I'm visiting a friend's family."

"You have French friends? I don't think I ever met them in college."

"This friend isn't from college."

"Is she French?"

"No, he..." she stopped suddenly, as though realizing she'd said too much, "...he's English. And he's in Paris, waiting for me."

"Waiting for you to do what?"

"I wanted to go shopping on the Riviera."

"Why without him?"

"It's none of your business."

"I'm driving you to your hotel, so maybe it is."

She laughed bitterly, "You practically abducted me back there!"

"I didn't abduct you, you went along willingly." he winked, "Is there trouble in paradise?"

"God, Trish was right about you! You're _disgusting_."

"I must be better than this little Englishman of yours. You're spending time with _me_, after all, not him..."

"You don't know what you're talking about!" she yelled, so suddenly that Hunter actually felt intimidated, if only for a split second.

"Maybe I don't," he said at last, "Or maybe you don't. After all, _I_ just stated facts. Here you are, with me in this car, going to your hotel. Meanwhile your other man is waiting miles away in a different city, none the wiser. That's all true, isn't it?"

"It's more complicated than that." she said reluctantly.

"What happened with Trish and I could have been complicated too, did you ever consider that?" he smiled at her again, and she averted her eyes, blushing pink.

He didn't ask to join her in her hotel room, but she didn't send him off either.

"Nice accomadations." Hunter remarked, taking off his jacket and pouring himself a glass of San Pelligrino as though he'd lived in this posh room his whole life, "I suppose he's paying for it?"

Chloe sat on the bed, feigning interest in a Dolce &amp; Gabbana catalog she'd gotten from the lobby. She said, "He's a doctor," as though that were an answer.

"Ah. New money, then. That's all right; he and I run in different social circles, I don't think we'll ever run into each other." he sipped the sparkling water, "I won't even ask you his name."

"I wouldn't have told you anyway."

Neither of them spoke for a while after that. Chloe flipped through her catalog, Hunter poured another glass of water and squeezed some lemon into it this time.

"I'm still here." Hunter pointed out after thirty minutes had passed.

"I know." she didn't look up from the catalog.

"Perhaps I've overstayed my welcome..." he was already on his way to the door.

"Wait!" suddenly she was on her feet, looking angry and frightened and ashamed all at once, "Don't go. Please. I...I don't want to be alone tonight."

Hunter looked at the phone on the nightstand, "Why don't you call your Englishman?" he asked, honestly wanting to know for the first time tonight.

"I...I can't. He won't understand." she stopped herself, pressed her hand to her mouth, removed it just as fast, and slapped it against the bedpost, "That's not what I meant, it's just...it's just that...its just that he cares. No! No, that's not what I..." she sat on the bed again, crying like a baby, "He cares too much! He cares too much and I just can't _stand_ it!"

Hunter had to admit, if only to himself, that he wasn't sure what all the waterworks were about. Women were strange that way, he supposed.

"So..." he said slowly, carefully, "maybe what you're trying to say is that you want to spend tonight with someone who doesn't care. Is that it?"

By why of answer, Chloe sprang up off the bed and kissed him, pulling off his jacket with such force Hunter could hear it tearing. He considered complaining about that, that that was an expensive and exquisite piece of clothing, tailored personally for him, but she was pulling him over to the bed, kicking off her shoes and struggling with his shirt. Hunter didn't resist. He wasn't supposed to care, after all, and it _was_ Thursday night. What else could he be doing right now? Nothing, that's what.

They could have been in bed together an hour or two or three. He didn't know. Either way, she was fast asleep by the time they were finished, breathing placidly and sleepily, tear tracks still shining on her face.

So Hunter got out of the bed and began to get dressed, making a mental note to call the tailor in the morning about his jacket.

He left the room, left the hotel, and drove off down the shore road in his shiny red convertible. He tried not to care, but for some reason that bothered him tremendously, he did.

* * *

**A/N: **So, I guess this counts as the first "inexplicable ship" one shot I've done, unless you count Booth/Danny as being particularly out of nowhere. I figured since Chloe was the only one of Trish's friends to never learn Hunter was on the island it would make the most sense for her to have had some illicit hookup with him some time before the show started. I'm personally fond of this one, since writing Hunter as an amoral douche with no problems was delightfully liberating...weird as that may sound. Of course feel free to tell me what you think, and I'll try to have another one up...eventually, and hopefully before another ten months goes by! Until then, my friends...


	7. Madison Allen

**"Mother Knows Best"**

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**A/N: **And here I come back to you all with a special surprise… Two one-shots for the price of one! Considering how sporadically I update this…well, it isn't really a story, but a collection of stories… Anyway, I figured it would be fairer to do two in one update. Here is Madison's. I ended up being surprisingly pleased with this one, despite dreading it at the beginning. As always, you are the judge of just how well I captured or mangled everybody's favorite Creepy Flower Girl. Also, the chapter quote here isn't so much a quote, as a non-quote. It appears very hilarious when written down, though hopefully the story itself makes up for that.

* * *

**Shea: **Madison, five minutes and you have to get ready for dinner!

**Madison**: (Ignores her, burns snail through a magnifying glass)

**Shea: **Madison, did you hear me?

* * *

She would occasionally spend hours of an afternoon just sitting by her window and watching birds alight on the windowsill. She loved birds, the same way the other girls at school loved cats and horses and fluffy puppies. Madison couldn't stand puppies, and Daddy was allergic to cats. As for horses, she couldn't see what the fun was in such a big, smelly animal that left 'leavings' (as her Grandpa called them) all over the place.

Oh, but she just loved watching the birds alight on the windowsill. She'd pestered her Grandpa to lend her a book on birdwatching, and she knew all the names now. She loved saying the names too, whispering them as if the birds would hear her and recognize that she was calling to them.

"Sparrow, robin, larkspur, bluejay, goldfinch, mockingbird..." she loved them all, and she loved listening to them sing. Sometimes the birds would sit and linger for a while, and sing to her through the window, which she always kept open for just this purpose. Madison would whistle a tune back. Friendly conversation.

Sometimes, when her grandpa visited, he would sit and watch the birds with her for a while, and then he would suggest they play a game of Go Fish, using little chocolates as prizes. Mommy didn't like her to have chocolate, but Grandpa didn't see a problem with it.

There were times when Katherine sat and watched the birds with her; she always brought this fancy pair of binoculars that could see clear as an eagle's eye for miles around. Madison loved those binoculars.

There was a time when Katherine suggested they go out to the State Park and have a nature walk.

"I don't know if you like that stuff," she said, watching Madison tinker with the binoculars' zoom function, "But you get to see all sorts of birds, lots more than here at your house. Eagles, and hawks, and maybe even owls. I think you said you liked owls."

"I do!" said Madison delightedly and Katherine smiled.

At dinner that night Madison could barely contain her excitement. She didn't say anything until after she was finished eating. Mommy didn't like Madison to get carried away talking because it made her lose her appetite.

"Katherine wants to take me birdwatching!" she said, so excited from waiting that she was afraid they wouldn't understand her.

Daddy must have understood, though, because he nodded at her, and slightly hastened to swallow the piece of roast beef which he was so ponderously chewing. He always took time chewing, Madison knew, when he didn't particularly like the food...not that he knew she knew.

"That's great, Maddy." he said at last, sounding slightly breathless with exertion, "Sounds like a good time."

"Birdwatching?" Mommy regarding Madison as if she'd never heard the word before, though her tone was pleasant enough, "Honey, I didn't know you wanted to go birdwatching."

"Katherine wants to take me." repeated Madison, thinking perhaps Mommy hadn't heard properly.

"Katherine?" Mommy cocked an eyebrow, "I didn't know she liked birds."

"She loves them!" said Madison, "She watches them with me, and she tells me how to tell them apart, and she showed me how to use binoculars."

"I wish she'd asked me first." said Mommy.

"Shea, what's the big deal?" Madison noticed her father was looking at Madison instead of her mother, "It's nice weather this time of year and you're always saying how Maddy could use some fresh air."

"Well, I don't see why Katherine asked so suddenly, that's all. She's never asked to do anything with Madison before."

"But we _have_ done things together!" said Madison impudently, but not caring if she sounded rude, "We look at birds and we play cards with Grandpa, and she even helps me with homework sometimes, when you and Daddy are busy!"

Mommy traced lines around the edge of her plate with her fork, her lips pursed like she'd just bitten into a lemon. Madison knew that look... It gave the impression of thinking very, very hard when really your mind was already made up. She'd done it a few times herself, to politely back down from Grandpa's long, droning stories about when he was her age.

"I don't think that's a very good idea, Maddy honey."

"But _why_?" Madison protested, leaning forward in her seat.

"You have homework to do, Madison, and I don't like the idea of you falling behind."

"But I _never_ fall behind, Mommy, I promise! I've been doing really, _really_ well, you saw my report card!"

"Well, we don't want to jeopardize that, do we? Now, come on, honey, help me with these dishes..."

Her mother never asked her to help with the dishes. Usually she did it herself, unless the maid Grandpa insisted they call in on some days was there. Then Mommy would let _her_ clean the dishes, though she didn't really like having servants around.

"Shea, come on," said Daddy, now staring with decided discomfort at some peas lying on the edge of his dish, "Maddy's a smart girl, and she could use the exercise..."  
"Well then, maybe one day we'll all go birdwatching together, as a family. Just the three of us. We never do spend much time together."

Daddy's expression darkened considerably, and he looked directly at Shea, "Katherine's the one that asked. Don't you think she'll be a bit put out if we all go without her?"

Mommy cast him a warning glance, "I don't think we really need to discuss this anymore, Richard. I just don't like the idea of Maddy spending too much time with Katherine."

"But Katherine didn't do anything wrong!" said Madison, feeling a hot indignation burning in her throat, the prelude to a tantrum, "She's nice to me, and she's really smart, and Grandpa loves her, and..."

"Katherine is not your mother, young lady!" Mommy almost never called Madison 'young lady', and when she did Madison knew she'd really upset her.

"Well..." Madison felt the tears coming. She hated crying...she was almost nine years old and she was too old to cry, "...well, I wish she _was_!"

She didn't wait to see what effect that had on her parents because she raced out of the room and up the stairs right away, blinded by her tears and thinking of nothing but getting away. She never asked for anything, never... What was so different about this? Madison hadn't done anything wrong, had she? Katherine certainly hadn't.

She heard a musical twittering as though from miles away. A nightingale was sitting on her windowsill, filling the little bedroom with music. Madison had never seen a nightingale before, but she knew them from the pictures in Grandpa's nature books.

It was such a lovely little thing, and so carefree... Madison envied it. She heard footsteps on the stairs, quick and efficient footsteps, determinedly moving forward. She knew those footsteps, and she also knew that she didn't want to be lectured or scolded or punished.

She wanted to fly away. Oh, if only she could just _fly away_!

The nightingale kept singing. Stupid little bird...why was _it_ allowed to come and go as it pleased, singing that little tune, that beautiful, lovely, stupid little tune. It wasn't fair. Madison hadn't even done anything _wrong_.

"Maddy!" her mother's voice, just outside the door, "Madison, open the door!"

She made up her mind. With all the strength she could muster, Madison slammed her window shut, sealing the nightingale inside. Spooked, the little bird let out a very unmusical screech and began flying around the room like a thing possessed, crashing into the bedpost, the bookcase, the dresser, and anything else that got in its way.

"Madison! Madison, please open the door!" Mommy sounded upset. Maybe she was sorry about yelling. Well, it didn't matter anymore. Madison would just make her wait. That was a different type of unfairness, and then she and her mother would be even.

The nightingale now turned its attention to the closed window, and to the warm glow of the setting sun outside. Like an out-of-control windup toy, it slammed against the window again and again and again, looking confused and bewildered. Well, good, now it knew what it felt like to be stuck in this stupid place. Another sort of unfairness.

"Madison! Madison, please unlock the door!"

The bird kept thudding against the glass, over and over and over again. And then, finally, it dropped onto the floor, its feathers untidy and its beak splayed open...like a broken stuffed animal.

Only then did Madison turn to open the door, first making sure the little nightingale was hidden safely under the bed.

"I'm sorry, Mommy." she said at once, not even taking in her mother's red face or teary eyes, "I didn't mean to make you mad."

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**A/N: **Again, this one was particularly fun to write. Since the show never gave any real explanation for Madison's habit of cruelty to animals, I figured I would go all armchair psychologist on her and have it be a coping mechanism for Shea's well-meaning but helicopter parenting tactics. Like it, hate it, indifferent? Feel free to tell me in a review!


	8. Charlie Mills

**"A Short Leash"**

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**A/N: **And here is part two of the update, for your reading pleasure! It's Charlie's, and is actually the third concept I had for his one-shot. I figured it could go in a series of directions, his character having as many facets as it does, but I settled on this one. Without further preamble…

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**Charlie: **It's too late for me. Jimmy loves you. You two can have…a life together.

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It was the third time this month alone. He came quietly this time, though, and looked at his feet the whole ride from the Cannery to the station.

Charlie studied him in the truck's rearview mirror, partly out of curiosity and partly out of some innate fascination. He remembered how often he'd scrutinized the boy back before...well, back before everything.

Sarah used to chide him for it. She was too trusting, Sarah, almost flippantly so, especially when it came to men... But Charlie chased that thought away. There was no reason to reflect on that now, not while he was on the job.

The boy kept staring at his feet, not saying a word. Maybe that was for the best, maybe he'd finally realized what 'the right to remain silent' meant. Third time's the charm, as they say.

When they reached the station, Charlie stepped out to open the rear door. The boy emerged before Charlie could beckon him, and followed him doggedly inside, still looking at the ground and nothing else.

One of his deputies, on dispatch duty tonight, looked caustically from Charlie to his perp and asked, "Need help booking him, Sheriff?"

"Nah, Tim, I've got it." usually he would have accepted the help, but it didn't seem right for this case.

So he undid the boy's cuffs and led him in the cell block. There was never more than one person to occupy the six-cell space at a time. Harper's Island was..._had been_ notoriously crimeless.

_Well, now we're notorious for something else_, Charlie reflected, closing the boy up in his cell, _Talk about different extremes._

The boy sat right down on the cot, staring at the wall opposite. Charlie could see, in the flickering fluorescent lights, how raw the scrapes on his arms and face really were. Doc Campbell has assured them they were nothing, merely superficial injuries...but God, didn't they look gruesome. Charlie's eyes were drawn to a cut on the side of the boy's neck; it wasn't one of the worst ones, but it just looked like the _other_ ones, the ones from his pictures. The marks the rope left around Sarah's neck...

But he had to stop thinking about that. He had to.

"Have you talked to her?"

Those words, spoken softly and plainly, forced Charlie from the pictures, the newspaper clippings, and everything else about his musty old attic or office or shrine, or whatever you called something like that.

"No, Jimmy," he said, gripping the bars of the cell with one hand, "I haven't."

Well, that wasn't entirely true. There'd been one call from L.A...Abby's grandmother, Sarah's mom. She'd only been on the line long enough to say Abby had gotten there safely. Charlie had heard dismay in her voice and, though he may have imagined it, accusation as well.

"I thought," Jimmy went on, rubbing his wrists which must have been sore from the cuffs, "that if she was gonna call anyone, it would be you."

"I hear she's okay, though. Settling in." So she hadn't called Jimmy either. Charlie remembered the night she left. The ferry was just fading to a little speck on the horizon, and suddenly Jimmy was there on the jetty beside Charlie, calling out to her and waving his arms.

Maybe he'd been right, what he always told Sarah. There's was a teenage fling, the sort of thing never meant to last. Sarah hadn't liked that comparison...Charlie knew why of course, and now he regretted ever making it. But Jimmy Mance was no John Wakefield...or at least, he didn't have to be.

"You miss her, don't you?" he asked.

"What kind of question is that?"

Indeed, it _was_ a stupid question. Charlie sighed; the kid wasn't making this any easier, "I asked, because I know we have...differences. But you aren't the type of person that starts bar fights without cause. You're..." he hated himself for sounding sappy, but he'd never been particularly eloquent anyway, "...you're better than that."

"That's funny. You were always telling Abby I wasn't. That I would get her into trouble, and I'd let her down." Jimmy stood up from the cot and crossed over to the bars; Charlie could smell the liquor on his breath, hot and sticky and a soury sweetness. He thought of the night Abby caught him drinking, right after what happened to Sarah... He chased that memory away too.

"What? Now that she's gone, you're gonna change your mind...why, 'cause I can't hurt her or anything?"

Charlie didn't know what to say. Dammit, the boy was more cunning than he'd given him credit for. Maybe this little show he was putting on _was_ because of Abby...in some way that not even Charlie had grasped until just this moment.

"She wouldn't want to see you like this." he said, at the same time thinking, _She probably wouldn't want to see _me_ like this, either_. But this wasn't about him; even if it was, Charlie didn't want it to be, "Regardless of how she left, she wouldn't want to see you like this, messing up your life...proving me right." he added the last part begrudgingly, to appeal to whatever boyish pride Jimmy actually possessed.

"What the hell do you know about what she wants?" Jimmy asked sharply, the most angry that Charlie had ever heard him, "You sent her away, you didn't even ask if she wanted to go. You just wanted to get rid of her!"

"_Wanted?_" he spat out the word, dropping the 'good cop' persona in no time flat, "You think I _wanted_ to send her away? Do you think I _wanted_ her to leave?"

"Then why did you send her away?"

Well...what was he supposed to say? What _could_ he say, really? He remembered that night, the night he'd made up his mind. The bottle of whisky swatted out of his hand, shattered against the wall. He remembered the way he'd looked at her, like he hated her, like it was _her_ fault. And he remembered the way she looked at him...like it was his fault.

Maybe it was. It didn't matter now, anyway, so he shouldn't let it matter.

"This wasn't the place for her." he said at last, "She needs time...time to adjust. There's just too much here..."

"So you did it for her?"

"I did it," said Charlie slowly, deliberately, "for all of us. For her, and for me, and for you."

"For _me_?" Jimmy rolled his eyes, "For _me_? What the hell is..."

"If she'd stayed, if I hadn't sent her away, she would have been...she would've been stuck. She wouldn't be able to move on. She needs time. Time to see this place differently." He wasn't sure if he was making any sense at all. Hell, _he_ didn't even know if he knew what he was saying. But all he could remember was the way she looked at him that night. The way she'd looked at _everything_ on this island in the days after what happened. She needed time, then, to disconnect from that image. This was more than the place where Sarah was strung up in a tree like some old marionette in a Punch and Judy show. Some days it was hard for Charlie to realize that too, and he'd lived here his entire life.

He looked at Jimmy with a sort of detached sympathy. Poor sap, he hadn't asked for any of this. But he was a part of it now, as much a part of it as Charlie was that day Wakefield came the first time...the day he came for Sarah and Charlie sent him off to prison. At the time it seemed like the right thing to do.

No one knew about that, of course. Well, Cole knew but wherever he was, he wasn't telling. And it was ridiculous to see some of himself in Jimmy, anyway. It made him uncomfortable to think it, so he didn't. Another thing to push away.

"She needs time?" scoffed Jimmy, "_She_ needs time? You sent her away, she didn't _want_ to go!"

"I did what was best." he repeated, "Imagine if she'd stayed... You saw what happened to Kelly Seaver."

They all knew what happened with Kelly Seaver, and Charlie felt like a heel for bringing it up. Maybe it wasn't fair to her to mention it as an example, but how else was he to make this young ingrate understand?

"She's safer there. Away from...from all of this."

Jimmy blinked, ran his hand down his face, "Why are you talking to me? Why do you care?"

Well, what was he supposed to say? _Because it's my job?; Because Abby would care_; _Because I know what crazy ex-boyfriends do to the girls who left them?_

He didn't know what to say, so instead he shrugged and said, "Maybe I don't. But it seems to me that you spend more time in this cell than a guy your age should. So I'll let you out."

Jimmy did a sort of double take, "You...you _what? _You're gonna let me go?"

"I'm gonna let you go because I know how Abby felt about you. She defended you all the time, said you weren't like 'other guys', whoever those were. I have a feeling 'other guys' don't just go around starting bar fights, and I think Abby felt the same way. So I'll let you go tonight...so long as you don't act like 'other guys' again, eh?"

Jimmy had a look about him, like a mouse caught in a trap. He scrutinized Charlie's face, as if searching for dishonesty, for cruelty, for any sign that this was just a prank, a little bit of revenge on the kid who stole his daughter's heart from him.

Charlie opened the cell and stepped aside, gesturing for Jimmy to step out, "Well?"

Slowly, Jimmy stepped out to join him. He took a few steps toward the door, doubled back, and finally settled on a, "Thanks. And...er...I guess I'm sorry for blowing up at you like that."

Charlie nodded by way of a response, an idea coming to him, "You didn't think you were getting off entirely scot free, now, did you?"

Jimmy froze in place, an expression of dread spreading on his face.

"I'll need to check up on you occasionally...make sure you're sticking to the straight and narrow."

"...What did you have in mind?"

"What do you say lunch, at Pepper's?" he cited the local diner, where he and Sarah and Abby had spent many a Saturday afternoon having lunch, "I'll buy."

Jimmy looked for a second like he still thought this was a huge joke, but he sighed, "Sure. I guess. Fine."

Charlie nodded, "I'll see you Friday, then. Say, ten o'clock?"

"Uh, okay. Cool." he looked from Charlie to the door, "Er...can I go now?"

"Stay out of trouble."

He was gone in seconds flat. Alone in the cell block, Charlie shook his head. _What the hell was I thinking?_

But he knew, deep down in his mind he knew what he'd been thinking. It was an extension of peace in the wake of a tragedy; a tribute to Abby, who'd left them both alone; a memorial to Sarah, who could forgive anyone, no matter what they'd done.

Yes...he'd just think of it that way. After all, in time he might even grow to like the kid.

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**A/N: **This one is a bit talkier than the previous one-shots. But I think it worked. As always, feel free to sound off in a review. I'm not sure when I'll be able to update again, but until then, take care!


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